FILM REVIEW; With Sympathy For the Devil, A Rock Writer Finds His Way

The power of popular music -- its ability to give shape, meaning and intensity to the inexpressible emotions of daily life -- is something of a motif in Cameron Crowe's career as a director. Think of John Cusack hoisting his boombox aloft outside Ione Skye's window in ''Say Anything'' or Tom Cruise hurtling down the highway in ''Jerry Maguire,'' spinning the radio dial in search of a song to suit his mood and happening upon Tom Petty's ''Free Falling.'' Mr. Crowe has always used rock not merely as soundtrack decoration but also as a window into the souls of his characters.

In ''Almost Famous,'' a loose, affectionate look back on his earlier career as a teenage music journalist, Mr. Crowe has devoted a whole movie to the love of rock 'n' roll. The soul he lays open -- a sweet, forgiving and generous one -- is his own. The movie follows the adventures of William Miller (Patrick Fugit), a San Diego 15-year-old whose fairy-tale ascendance from nerdy schoolboy to Rolling Stone reporter mirrors Mr. Crowe's own life story. But Mr. Crowe is less interested in biographical or historical literalism -- he freely mixes real and fictional characters and prefers period atmosphere to period detail -- than in evoking the joyful, reckless, earnest energy of rock in the years between 60's idealism and punk nihilism.

He may be the least cynical director working in Hollywood today. In his hands this coming-of-age story is as much about the preservation of William's innocence as its loss; the music William loves protects him even as his involvement with it introduces him to all manner of worldly corruption (including his deflowering by three groupies in a Tennessee hotel room). He is introduced as an articulate, somewhat anxious boy (played in the early scenes by Michael Angarano), living with his rebellious older sister (Zooey Deschanel) and their protective mother, a college professor portrayed with glowing intelligence and scary intensity by Frances McDormand.

Although she is decidedly eccentric and a bit hysterical about the evils of pop music (''They're obviously on drugs,'' she fumes, pointing to the clean-cut portrait on the cover of Simon and Garfunkel's ''Bookends''), Ms. McDormand's Elaine Miller is far from the standard uptight movie mom. The bonds between her and William are strong and complicated.

As a screenwriter, Mr. Crowe is an unmatched comic portraitist who rarely stoops to caricature, and as a director he has an extraordinary gift for drawing out rounded, complex performances even in supporting roles and for indicating the fine emotional shadings in the relationships among his characters. What other filmmaker is as devoted to the nuances of decency or as fascinated by the subtle and complicated ways people can be nice to one another?

Of course, rock 'n' roll is not always about being nice. ''Almost Famous'' overflows with sympathy for the devil, but glides over the demonic power and decadent excess that remain integral to the music's allure and central to the rock star lifestyle. It's not exactly that Mr. Crowe's script whitewashes the period: the plot hinges on the sexual exploitation of female fans, and its turning point involves a drug overdose. But while he acknowledges that human beings can be cruel, self-destructive and dishonest, Mr. Crowe declines to probe too deeply into the darkness and irrationality of the human heart.

This is fair enough and a welcome antidote to the chic misanthropy that often masquerades as artistic seriousness, but darkness and irrationality -- the thrill of sexual danger and violent abandon -- are central to the film's subject, and its handling of them sometimes feels timid and evasive.

But this matters less than it might, thanks to Mr. Crowe's smart, expansive script and an approach to visual storytelling that becomes richer and more assured with every movie. ''Almost Famous'' is shaggier and less emotionally satisfying than ''Jerry Maguire'' -- by far the best romantic comedy of the 1990's -- but it teems with high-spirited life. I, for one, am unable to resist a movie that places the voice of wisdom in the mouth of a critic, the great Lester Bangs, played with guile and gusto by Philip Seymour Hoffman. ''These people are not your friends,'' Bangs tells William, warning him to keep a critical distance from the musicians he writes about, but of course once William joins up with the band Stillwater he finds it hard to follow this advice. He is especially drawn to Russell Hammond (Billy Crudup), the band's skinny, smoldering lead guitarist, and to Penny Lane (Kate Hudson), the leader of a troupe of liberated groupies (''We don't have intercourse -- we inspire the music'') who call themselves the Band-Aids.

''Almost Famous'' is pushed into rough narrative coherence by the emotional triangle involving writer, groupie and star, which culminates in a rather precipitous set of crises. These are resolved a little too neatly and sunnily. The movie's real pleasures are to be found not in its story but in its profusion of funny, offbeat scenes. It's the kind of picture that invites you to go back and savor your favorite moments like choice album cuts. Mr. Fugit, who has the abashed charm of a pubescent Jeff Bridges, is remarkable in his first film role. He falters a bit when he has to show big emotions, but for the most part he is perfect as a wise, credulous child trying out a series of grown-up stances, looking for the one that feels right. Ms. Hudson and Mr. Crudup inhabit their roles with such mellow ease that the film opens up around them, giving the splendid supporting cast room to shine. In addition to Ms. McDormand and Mr. Hoffman, Jason Lee as Stillwater's hotheaded lead singer and Fairuza Balk as one of Penny's fellow Band-Aids are especially memorable.

Before its release, ''Almost Famous'' was reportedly trimmed by about 40 minutes, and though I don't know what was cut I found myself wishing the movie, still an ample two hours, could be even longer, fuller, more episodic. The 70's, after all, were a great era of creative excess: 15-minute guitar solos, endless gonzo ramblings in the pages of Rolling Stone and movies whose messiness was the measure of their ambition. But young William Miller, much as he sips at the bad craziness around him, is too responsible to permit himself a full swallow. (''Don't take drugs!'' his mother shouts into the phone as he struggles to hear her through the din of hotel lobbies and dressing rooms. As far as we know, he obeys her.)

The child is father to the man. Mr. Crowe's confident faith in human decency shrinks the movie; sometimes the good is the enemy of the great. But if he hasn't quite captured the Dionysian madness of his subject -- the epic grandiosity that the recently reissued ''This is Spinal Tap'' so lovingly lampoons -- what Mr. Crowe has done is nonetheless remarkable. He has made a movie about sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll that you would be happy to take your mother to see.

''Almost Famous'' is rated R (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian). It includes sex and drugs, as well it should.

ALMOST FAMOUS

Written and directed by Cameron Crowe; director of photography, John Toll; edited by Joe Hutshing and Saar Klein; music by Nancy Wilson; art directors, Clay A. Griffith and Clayton R. Hartley; produced by Mr. Crowe and Ian Bryce; released by DreamWorks Pictures. Running time: 202 minutes. This film is rated R.